


the calm after the breakdown-induced haircut

by lewispeppers



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Everyone Is Alive, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Shinguji Korekiyo-centric, This Is Fine, anyways serious tag time, first fic, god i’m gonna regret posting later huh., oh man am i frightened to post this but y’know what?, postgame au, virtual reality au, vr au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24502216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lewispeppers/pseuds/lewispeppers
Summary: or, alternatively titled: korekiyo shinguji has some issues that a pair of scissors can’t fixor, ANOTHER alternative title: ao3 user lewispeppers listens to midnight love by girl in red at 12:47 AM on a sunday night and has the brilliant idea of writing their first fanfic abouttheir comfort character
Relationships: korekiyo/therapy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44





	the calm after the breakdown-induced haircut

Metal clinked against porcelain as he set the scissors down. He- okay. This was.. incredibly impulsive, and not like him at all. 

Then again, who was he anyways? Some sickly teenager, who was really only still in this world for his sister? The one who gave up after she died and auditioned for a godforsaken killing game, which turned out to be fabricated anyways? Ooh! Or, was he some mysterious anthropologist with an affinity for humanity, bondage, murder, and incest? Who killed two people for the sake of someone who wasn’t even real? 

Who the fuck even was Korekiyo Shinguji?

.  
.  
.

Well, whoever he was now, he sure as hell didn’t know.

Golden eyes gazed- no, glared- up at their reflection. Previously incredulously long hair, down to his fucking ass at that, was now a choppy bob. It looked like a toddler had gotten a hold of a pair of scissors for the first time and decided to go to town on his hair. His.. no, not his. Every part of him belonged to Team Danganronpa, to a sister who was either dead or didn’t exist. He, whoever he was, was trademarked. His soul was sold to the Danganronpa franchise the day that sickly boy signed himself off to die.

He spit a piece of hair out of his mouth, picking it out with shaky hands. The male breathed, in and out. In and out. He rubbed his eyes, the orbs all too wet and painfully dry at the same time. 

God, the press was really going to be up his ass about this. Rantaro- no, Amami. He lost the right to have that familiarity with the participants after he signed up, forced the life out of Angie, and tricked Tenko into death. He might have lost that right before that, for all he cared- knew it well, often dying his hair and getting various piercings.

It must be rough, figuring out that not only the one, but twelve people you cared for the most didn’t even exist. It must be rough, having to go through that hell that was Danganronpa twice. It must be rough, being the Ultimate Survivor, and being the first victim. It must be rough, being a victim in the first place. Must be rough. He lost the right to pity himself after he robbed three people of their lives. Angie, Tenko, and whoever that sickly boy who simply cared for his sister was before the game. 

If he had lost that right, then why was he here, with puffy red eyes that wouldn’t calm and tears drying upon his cheeks? Why was there hair down his drain and a pair of scissors in his hand? Why did he have trouble breathing over the thought of someone who didn’t exist, yet still held so much power over him? Why was he forcing himself to be perfect for someone fabricated?

He huffed. Bony, slender fingers dug themselves into the cold, hard porcelain of the sink underneath him. This was not gonna be fun to clean up, that was for certain. God, he’d have to explain this during their group therapy session that week too- ugh, he really didn’t think this through.

Bare, unwrapped and uncovered fingernails scratched against porcelain at the thought. The idea of sitting in a circle, forcing all his problems out into the open for all to see? Not his idea of entertainment. Not at all. The prodding around that everyone would do to his mind for personal gain and for answers as to why they or their friends got offed was his own form of personal torture. 

He always kept up a cool and collected mask- figuratively and literally, so it seemed- and bottled up his emotions, even before the game. Hell, he didn’t even know that was a bad thing until after he realized that his dear sister who lived inside him or whatever Team Danganronpa wanted him to believe was not only a piece of human garbage, but also not real in the first place. The final nail in the coffin, he supposed.

Stray hairs on the counter were swept aside and long legs seated themselves upon the sink. What now? He had his moment. His breakdown, and then his impulsive decision to cut his hair. His decision to change himself, set himself apart from his fake sister. To set himself apart from the fake Korekiyo Shinguji. To set himself apart from the sickly boy.

His decision. Something that was purely his. Not sister’s, not in game Korekiyo’s, not the sickly boy’s.

.  
.  
.

He liked that.


End file.
